The Waterfront Ale House, the closest eats near the OCME, was at the start of lunch rush so Nikki Heat and Lauren Parry grabbed one of the high tops in the bar rather than wait for a table. For a saloon the food was surprisingly good and always adventurous. Both ordered from the chalkboard. Nikki had the porter onion soup, her friend broke out and said she’d try the elk burger.
After Heat filled her in on her exam results and the recent call from Phyllis Yarborough, Lauren congratulated her, but seemed muted. She said that in spite of the good news, she was worried about Nikki after her ordeal in Central Park. The detective glanced out the window to Second and The Discourager parked in his blue-and-white and reassured Lauren she felt secure enough. “And after lunch I’ll be in the safest place in Manhattan. The Montroses didn’t leave any relatives, so I’m going to 1PP to see what I can do to assist with the memorial service.”
Their food arrived. The ME bisected her elk burger and asked, “No relatives? No kids?”
“The dog was their kid.”
“What kind of dog?”
“Long-haired mini dachshund, just like yours.” Heat pulled a strand of melty cheese from her spoon and could see the wheels turning in her friend. “Dr. Parry, before you get any ideas about Lola getting a big sister, the captain’s neighbor has Penny and wants to keep her.”
“Penny . . . ,” said Lauren. “Tell me she isn’t sweet.”
“A prancing bundle of cuteness.” Heat grew reflective. “It’s one more thing that weakens the suicide theory. Cap doted on Penny. No matter what else was going on, no way he would just abandon her.”
“Good luck trying to derail where this train is heading with that,” said the ME. “This has momentum. A suicide disposition is all but signed and sealed.”
Nikki studied her friend. “Is it me, or do I hear reservations?”
“I am a skeptic by profession. That’s science.”
“But . . .”
Lauren Parry set down the crescent of remaining burger and dabbed her mouth. “I don’t like the bullet trajectory. It’s in the realm, but for my taste it tracks forward and to the left too much. Plus it was a chin shot.” They both knew that most shooters minimized a nonfatal miss factor by sticking the barrel in their mouths, hence the cop slang “eating your gun.” She must have sensed Nikki’s thought process and added, “Yes, there was residue on his hand.”
Heat pushed her soup aside and stared out the window, lost in thought.
* * *
She should have known something was off by the look on the lieuten ant’s face when she showed him her list. “I see . . . right. Just a moment, please.” The department’s funeral director went to a desk in the back of the small office suite and punched a number on his phone without sitting. While Nikki waited, she studied the Honor Roll of the Fallen—heroes remembered forever on tall brass plaques that lined the walls of the reception area. Framed pictures traced the history of memorial ceremonies for New York’s Finest from sepia to black-and-white to Kodachrome to digital. She reviewed her list, which included suggested speakers, Emerald Society bagpipes, and a request for a helicopter flyover, since that was one of Captain Montrose’s early units before he made detective.
Lieutenant Prescott returned. “Would you like to have a seat?”
“Is there a problem?”
Prescott’s face grew solemn. “Detective Heat, I appreciate your volunteering to assist us with the service for Captain Montrose, but our planning doesn’t go to anything as, well . . . elaborate . . . in this particular case.”
“Is it the helicopter? I’ve seen it done, but that’s only an idea.”